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The Best Story Ever: Period.
posted by Ryan on Friday, 11 August 2006.
Sally Peppercorn Buttermilk is a zesty, creamy young woman. She is, as some
might put it, sixteen ounces of fun for $2.49. If she golfed, she'd be less apt
to drive than to gently pour herself over the green. If the hearts of men were
bacon bits, they would cling adhesively to her. If she walked through a garden,
she would draw out the sundry flavors and aromas if only by her engaging
presence. But for all of her givings to levity and good humor, when it comes
down to brass tacks on the nitty-gritty, Sally is known as a straight-shooter, a
narrow-line-walking daughter-of-a-gun, if you will, which you probably won't.
And there Sally is, on line in front of you at Thrombey's Oil Change and
Grocery, and you swear that you see her slip a pack of Squilchies liquid-center
chewing gum, unpaid, into her pocket, the contents maybe squishing internally as
it squeezes into the virtually un-voluminous slit in her tight blue jeans' side.
You observe, and as her hand falls away from the area, there is definitely a
slim buldge, approximately the size of an aroused terrier's shame, plumping the
otherwise smooth fabric plain to her left side below the belt.
You can't believe your eyes. Could Sally Peppercorn Buttermilk, winner of the
most recent Gravitas County Grilled Chicken Sub Sauce Taste-Off, have just
shoplifted? Could this delightful young woman, renowned for a personality that
is both smooth and tangy, have just breached a core stipulation of the social
contract? You think back to the time she went over to help dress the Garnish
Twins before the big Halloween auction, and how gracefully she stuck to her guns
and stayed on the diet, earning an endearing nickname, expanding her nominative
breadth to Sally "Low-Fat" Peppercorn Buttermilk, or less blatantly, Sally
"Light" Peppercorn Buttermilk. As local horrible person Barold Mansac would
have put it, "since she now comes in Light, there's no longer any reason to feel
guilty about dipping your celery stalk."
Ahead of her, checking out his large cartload of groceries and case of
"low-carb" 10W40 is the Secretary of War, Granch Depravo, who is licking his
lips as he watches slab after slab of raw red meat—each bound almost to
bursting by sheer shrinkwrap on skin-thin styrofoam trays—pass over the
laser scanner and rack up a small-scale military debt. The old, fat man's
fingertips taunt one another, and you seem to hear under his breath mutterings
about, "them, they, the other ones, and then the blood, them..."
Scanning the Secretary of War's meat and oil is young, chipper clerk
Estrógena Gurlioni, whose fingernails, if held together, would form a
nearly blinding and amply representative spectrum of decorative hues cheaply
obtained. She is chewing something with audible and ceaseless pleasure, perhaps
a piece of that which you seem to think but still cannot believe that Sally
Peppercorn Buttermilk has slipped into the shallow holster of her denim.
Estrógena Gurlioni's intensely sculpted bangs form a protective barrier
over her forehead, as if she responded stylistically to being frequently
targetted by vengeant frisbee enthusiasts. Her earrings are what Barold Mansac
would call "anklets." Her blouse is frilly enough to be harvested. Her perfume
is strong enough to juggle barbells. When she has a cold, her nose runs for
city council, and you may independently extrapolate additional punning
embellishments.
You wonder for a moment about interactive fiction, namely, which of a finite
group of branched endings might be considered canonical, but then your attention
is drawn back to the immediate surroundings as Estrógena hands Granch
Depravo his receipt. She apologizes to him, noting that one of the packages
leaked and some of the raw meat fluids seem to have gotten on his document of
purchase. No sooner has the implied punctuation of her spoken message reached
your ears than does Granch Depravo draw the dampened register tape to his maw,
rubbing the chilly biolube-saturated list on his hungry and withered lips as if
it were his first potential nourishment after weeks in the desert.
Sally Peppercorn Buttermilk's groceries are advanced by the conveyor belt, and
you think you see her sub- or self-consciously swipe the lump in her jeans
pocket with distracted fingers. She seems to be obsessed with whatever is in
there, whether she realizes it or not, and you struggle to recall if it had been
there prior to what you thought was her whisking of a pack of gum, but what
could possibly have only been an innocuous gesture or shift of stature. Sweet
Sally Peppercorn Buttermilk, who famously, in response to a request at the
community center lock-in of "let us in..." once quipped, "lettuce 'n' tomato?"
Sally, who once joked, "If I'd been a boy, I would have been Sal-lad." Could
she have stolen, even if it were something as forgivable as chewing gum?
Estrógena Gurlioni chomps her chewing gum and Sally Peppercorn Buttermilk
proceeds to remove her wallet in order to pay for everything—except,
perhaps, the possible Squilchies tucked into her taut trousers, which is one of
those vaguely poetic strings of verbiage you never expected as a line of your
internal monologue, almost as if you have ceased to possess control over the
narration of your own life, which is a profoundly troubling concept in itself if
taken without granular sodium chloride.
As if the world slows down for a moment, dimming the overall illumination and
somehow highlighting the scene, you notice an instantaneous but undeniable
exchange of resentful sneering between the two young ladies. And as the world
gears back into normal pace and tone, it dawns on you: these two used to be best
friends. They always used to dress alike, unrelated twins in milky white gowns,
talking in giggling whispers and rarely seen apart. And the reason this did not
initially occur to you has nothing to do with lazy narration, but instead it has
to do with the fact that it has been years since the still-mysterious
circumstances of their fallout came to pass. What could have caused a rift
between two friends so close?
Sally Peppercorn Buttermilk takes her groceries away in a ha'cart, which
innovation you find incredibly convenient if you're only doing some modest
shopping, more than a handbasket's worth, but less than would necessitate the
traditional full-on tank with misaligned wheels. In fact, you have a ha'cart
with you now, even though, as it turns out, you are going to buy only one item.
As Barold Mansac would say, "You don't have enough junk to warrant the trunk."
But there's no law against it; even if you knew if was only going to be the one
item, you like ha'carts, darn it, so why not use one?
You have also chosen not to use the express self-scan checkout, which tells you
a lot about who you are. Perhaps you're slightly old-fashioned, or maybe you've
had one too many frustrating experiences where, say, the laser won't easily read
even a large, high-contrast bar code, or perhaps you've found that if you have
to do the slightest extra-cirricular checkout function, such as redeem a bottle
return coupon or get cash back from a debit card, that you have to interact with
the attendant at the service desk anyway, so why not just go to the regular,
human-staffed checkout line? This is your logic, and you're not in a position
to apologize for it.
As your item is rung up and placed in a paper bag (you have decided against
plastic, and you have your reasons), it becomes apparent that your fascination
with the lives of others is insatiable, and that you must persue information
from one of the people from the checkout line, almost as if this were the format
your life has taken, where autonomy is limited to selections made within the
scope of threefold arrays. You know that the item of real significance might
not be the potential gum in Sally Peppercorn Buttermilk's pocket, though that
was the impetus of your curiosity. Also intriguing are the details of the
fallout between Sally and Estrógena Gurlioni, but you sense that
Estrógena would be the one to ask in that regard. And then there was the
frothy madness of Secretary of War Granch Depravo, whose receipt-licking
bloodthirstiness at first appeared to be red herring in your gum larceny caper,
though now you're not so sure. The colorful cashier looks at you expectantly as
there are now people on line behind you, and your wallet is put away, and it is
indeed decision time.
You decide to...
You huff out to the blacktop, pushing your larger-than-required rolling container, and the summer sun has made the
entire parking lot wavy with heat. You find Sally with the hatchback of her
hybrid hoisted high. She's loading in a few bags and closing the rear door and
you take the opportunity to casually approach her.
"Sally, remember me from the line?"
"Oh, sure," she says. "Actually, I think we first met at the Garden Sensatastic
Fest last leap year."
"Right, right," you say, everything coming back to you. "You won the 'Skinny
Dip' contest..."
"...After I lost the weight, yes," Sally says, nodding affably.
"Look, Sally," you say, trying to find a way to gently couch your accusation, "I
couldn't help but notice that your jeans gained a little bump
while you were in line ahead of me."
Sally's brow furrows and then she raises her eyebrows and says, "So they did."
She doesn't elaborate, forcing you to awkwardly go on.
"Well," you say, building your nerve, "it looks like you slipped some Squilchies
into your pocket."
"Yes, that's correct," Sally says, somewhat defensively. "Sometimes you just
need them, you know. Can't really help it."
You look at her like an unsliced bagel at a toaster. "Sally," you say, "you
certainly can help not stealing."
Sally says, "Whoa, I didn't steal anything. I took the Squilchies out of my
purse and slipped it into my pocket, because I knew that I would need it very soon."
You are confused. "I'm confused," you say. "So you didn't steal the
Squilchies, and you were going to have a gum
emergnecy?"
"No," Sally Peppercorn Buttermilk says exasperatedly, pulling out the slim
package from her pocket. "It's a Squilchies brand tampon."
You are too embarrassed to speak.
"Now," says Sally, "I've got to get going, because I need
this. Have a good day."
She quickly gets into her car, and you stand, a bit dumbstruck. She drives off
in her environmentally-friendly vehicle, and you wheel your ha'cart toward your
own car, a lonely paper bag containing a can of spinach within its basket. You
are hoping to go home, open the can, consume its contents and become very strong
for a few minutes, though you're not convinced it will work. Either way, your
perception of the world has changed, if only a little bit, today. As Barold
Mansac might say, you have discovered that even Buttermilk sometimes flows red.
Estrógena looks at you somewhat blankly, then turns to the suddenly
lengthly queue of customers lined up where you have just checked out your one
item, then turns back to you.
"'Kay," she says, smacking her gum. Then she yells into an intercom microphone,
"Debra, I'm goin' on break."
As you follow her to the worker's lounge, the angry ruffling of customer
discontent behind you fades like the innaugural drive of a poor golfer.
The room is a gaudy green and brown pastiche, cigarette smoke both ancient and
current mingling in the air. You both sit on molded plastic chairs, mostly
ignoring the older woman who is smoking and looking out the window.
Estrógena stage-whispers, "That's Madge. She's been here since it was two
shops, and they say she's been bewildered since Sow-Dee Oil Change and Grocer
Thrombey merged, but still hain't missed a day in thirty-seven years."
"Remarkable," you stage-whisper back. The remainder of your conversation is
indeed looking to be in stage-whisper. "So, Estrógena, I know we don't
know each other well, besides you checking out my groceries, at which you are
very good..."
"Thankee," she says.
"...but I was wondering what happened between you and Sally Peppercorn
Buttermilk that you're not friends anymore? I know it's not really any of my
business, but I'm not one to just go on relying on rumors. Is there anything
you can clarify for your public?"
"Well gosh, since you put it that way, making it sound all important, then yes,
I guess I could share some of the most tender secrets of my soul with ya."
"Thankee," you say, cleverly attuning to Estrógena's dialect.
"Well, see," she says, scrunching her nose as she peers down at her
absentmindedly splayed fingernails, "we always used to go around when was little
girls like we was sisters, wearing little white, matching dresses."
"Yes, I remember that," you say.
"And then, when we reached a certain age and our bodies started changing, she
was mad that I was bloomin' faster than she was; I was getting more attention
from the boys and like that. And then one day—and this was the last day we
wore them white dresses together—I knew it was the onset of my time, but
then I couldn't find my Squilchies, and I ruined my dress, and it turned out
that Sally had stole my Squilchies."
"You ruined your dress because Sally stole your gum?" you ask, befuddled.
"No, not Squilchies the gum; Squilchies the feminine cotton tubey," says
Estrógena.
Then it dawns on you: Squilchies is also the brand name of a certain kind of
tampon.
"I was so embarrassed," she says, "that I could't look anyone in the eye no
more, least of all Sally Peppercorn Buttermilk!"
"Oh dear," you say, sounding like your grandmother. "Didn't she say she was
sorry?"
"Yeah," says Estrógena, "but...I don't know, I just couldn't get over that
embarrassment, what with the whole school calling me a blood stained,
vagina-diaper-needin' fool. Even that mean old janitor, Barold Mansac, used to
say it."
"Oh Estrógena," you say, "Sally didn't mean to cause you that pain. And
except for Barold, they were all kids, and they were probably just as confused
and scared as you were."
Estrógena seems to ponder this for a moment. "Yeah, maybe you're right.
There's no need to keep goin' on like it's the end of the world. Plus, now I'm
sure she's got her own Squilchies."
"Yes," you say knowingly, "I'm, sure she does."
You thank Estrógena for her story, and you self-satisfiedly wheel away your
ha'cart containing a paper bag with a single box of a cereal called V-Puffs, not
thinking that there might be some irony to that.
Contrary to what you'd read on the internet, you find that it is not difficult,
driving a mid-class consumer vehicle, to catch up to an army tank with a
five-minute head start down a two-lane highway. For a high-ranking military
leader, Depravo seems to be missing an element of covertness in his whole
approach to transportation. Nevertheless, you are tailing him with notable
ease, pondering his intentions with all of that motor oil and meat. Before
long, you see the glowing neon sign towering above a roadside field, blinking
arrow and all:
SECRET UNDERGROUND MILITARY BUNKER, 300 FT
You follow the tank closely, and it's a good thing you do, because as you
descend the ramp into the bunker, the rusty garage door closes behind you, a few
specks of light shining through the oxidized holes in what, according to an
article you had read about the compound, was supposed to be foot-thick
fortress-grade ultrasteel. Apparently they decided to spend that part of the
budget on extra tanks for trips to the store or to replace those notoriously
broken-down military golf carts.
You stop your car and step out as Depravo parks his tank over to the side of the
largely vacant and sparsely-lit area that is the bunker, sometimes referred to
in the news as the Granch Ranch. The lid-door of the tank opens and the
Secretary of War crawls out, bags in his hands and dangling from between his
teeth. As he plops to the ground, dropping the bag that was in his mouth, he
squints over at you, and then drops the rest of his bags, bringing out a large
gun from within his jacket. Just shy of aiming the gun at you, he yells, "Are
you Al Kayduh?"
You smile and chuckle, saying "No," and offering your actual name.
"Oh," he said. "Cuz I was told to watch out for this guy named Al Kayduh.
Apparently he hates freedom."
"That's a shame," you say consolingly. "Freedom is great."
"I like deep-fried freedom," says Secretary of War Granch Depravo, dropping to
the ground to sit in a cross-legged fashion, still well across the bunker floor
from you. You find that between the grocery bags strewn around him, he looks
like a child amidst a pile of toys. "What's your favorite flavor of freedom?"
"Well," you say, thinking for a moment, "probably raspberry. Though I happen to
think that freedom is a dish best served cold. Although, really, any freedom is delicious."
"Some people like it hot, some people like it cold, some people like it in a pot
nine days old," says Depravo, chanting almost absently.
"That sounds like something Barold Mansac once told me," you say.
"Mansac?" Depravo asks, suddenly alert again. "Watch out for him. I hear he's a
friend of Al Kayduh. He can't stand freedom, whether it's poached, broiled,
blanched, julienned, braised, or blankened."
"Some people just like freedom simply in a bowl with milk," you admit, then
deciding to pursue your investigation. "So, Granch, what are you gonna do with
all of that raw meat?"
"Well, can you keep a military secret?"
"Sure," you say, looking side to side, crossing your fingers, and your nose
growing ever so slightly.
"Well, this country doesn't actually need a military anymore. About three
computers actually do everything now, security-wise, but we don't want the
average Jessup to know that, or our funding would freeze up quicker than iced
freedom."
"Sure, sure," you say.
"But," says Depravo, "there is certain segment of the population who just can't
get enough of bloody meat and oil, and we call ourselves the military, and
that's why we keep starting wars in the desert."
"Oh, I see," you say, "that makes a lot more sense than any other explanation
I've heard."
"Yeah, and well, you know, as one of the higher-ups, I don't actually get to go
over and fight, so, once in awhile, I like to just sit back and relax with some
oil and raw meat."
"Wow," you say, "that certainly is a lot of meat and oil for one guy. How long
will that last you?"
"Most of today," he says, blushing coyly, like a rabbit wearing lots of makeup
in a lab. "Would you care for a slab?"
"No thanks," you say, noticing that one of the Secretary of War's bags has a
slightly boxier shape. "Say, what's in that bag?"
"Oh," says Depravo, chuckling, "that's a box of Squilchies brand tampons. I
find that they make great bibs."
"Yuck," you say. "So, uh, do I need a code or something to leave?"
"Oh, yeah," he says. "The hyper-secret password for entering or leaving the
compound is 'Pizza Guy.' Just yell it near the door and it will open. So, you
can't hang out, huh? Got somewhere to go?"
"Uh, yeah," you say. "I was just going to go get some...freedom."
"Mmmmmmm," he says. "Oh, by the way, don't give that password to any
freedom-haters like Barold Mansac."
"Well," you say, "as Mansac would say, 'I wouldn't do that even if someone
offered me a jar of pickled babies.'"
You swear that you hear Depravo's stomach grumble. You cautiously back up until
you can get safely into your car, where, in the passenger seat next to you is a brown paper bag containing a jar of vingegar-saturated miniature cucumbers.
If this story has ended in a way that discourages or offends you, please remember that you have only yourself to blame.
